


Philautia

by HeLovedYou



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Afterlife, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Immortality, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:41:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25367776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeLovedYou/pseuds/HeLovedYou
Summary: Tony dies and Steve keeps on living. Well. He doesn’t die. Living might be a bit of a generous term
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25
Collections: Lights on Park Ave





	Philautia

**Author's Note:**

> Created for Lights On Park Ave prompt challenge, round 11, for [this prompt](https://lightsonparkave.tumblr.com/post/622478251079647232/c%C3%A9line-sciamma-in-her-vox-interview-portrait)
> 
> Philautia (Greek: φιλαυτία, romanized: philautía) means "self love"

On their wedding day, they promised each other in sickness and in health, till death do them part.

He had never imagined this, though.

The day Tony dies, the sun is shining so Steve helps him onto the roof of the Tower and promises to be back with sun cream and drinks.

When he steps back onto the roof, it’s to glassy eyes and a still heart and Steve doesn’t even feel shattered glass piercing unblemished skin.

There’s a funeral. Of course there is, he was Tony Stark and Iron Man, had saved them in more ways most cared to know. So they have a funeral, where people bring candles and flowers and others throw stones and bitter words.

Steve gets up in front of the crowds, performs for them at his husband’s funeral and when he takes his seat again, his are the only dry eyes in the place.

Later, they have their own service, for family. Steve doesn’t say anything this time, but Rhodes does and Natasha does and Pepper. Their eyes are puffy and Pepper’s are red and Rhodes’ are bloodshot and still, Steve balls his hands into fists and does not cry.

They talk for a while after, but drift apart, inevitably.

It’s not the same.

At night, Steve finds himself on the roof and thinks _why._ He had promised till death do them part but death has parted them now and still, _still_ his heart loves. He wonders why ending that promise was part of the deal. He has loved Tony Stark through life and he will love him through death too, this he knows like he knows the sun will set every day.

For the next months, years, decades, he does. He carries the ember of love he has left into every fight, shields it as his friends join his husband while he himself still looks not a day over twenty six.

He makes sure their stories, their legends, live on. People talk of the compassion of the Falcon and the brilliance of Bruce Banner and the skill of the Black Widow and the stories of Thor still circle around too. People talk of these and more, the other avengers who have come and gone, but most of all, they talk about Earth’s best defender, their golden Avenger. They tell tales of Tony Stark and Steve wishes he could hear them and not feel something cruel twist in his chest.

He keeps his family alive the only way he knows how and he wishes it were enough.

He meets Thor on Asgard. They do this sometimes. Meet and reminisce on the good old days, when they were a team and could not even fathom the empty loneliness their lives have become. _His,_ he corrects. Just his life. Because Thor is still surrounded by family in arms and citizens who respect him and, if nothing else, will die with him.

Their meetings’ frequency had dwindled over the last number of decades, and Steve hates himself a bit for it, but he envies Thor the grey that’s starting to streak his hair and the wrinkles that now line his face. He resents him for the fact that one day he will join their friends and family and Steve will be left; the last Avenger.

When the suns on Asgard start to cross and their light begins to fade, Thor grips his shoulder and looks down at him, imploring.

“Stay, Steven. Just this one night.”

And he looks so sad and sincere and Steve closes his eyes, briefly, thinks _help me_ , and nods.

“Sure.”

He falls asleep that night in an Asgardian palace and opens his eyes to a sight that has him choking on tears.

Before him is the Tower, _their_ Tower, as it stood over six centuries ago. He looks up and distantly remembers how ugly it had seemed to him once and wonders how he could ever think such a thing. His home – _their_ home – stands in front of him and with unsteady movements he moves through the lobby, to the elevators, and presses the button for the private floors. He’s quiet a moment, overwhelmed, when a thought occurs to him and he looks up, tentative. “JARVIS?”

There’s a beat of silence where Steve wants to berate himself for such naïveté, but a warm English voice replies “Welcome, Captain Rogers,” and Steve has to grip the handle bar to keep himself upright.

The elevator doors open and Steve isn’t prepared for the sounds of laughter and happy conversation that meet him.

He rounds the corner, tears finally let loose. In front of him, the conversation dies and everyone turns to look at him, curiosity in their eyes and sympathy tugging at their lips.

Everyone.

He sees Natasha and Clint and Bruce on the sofa nearest to him, Sam with Peter by the windows, and Bucky and Rhodey and-

Tony stands as his eyes fall on him and Steve feels himself stumbling forward even as Tony moves towards him.

They meet in the middle and Steve grips the sides of his arms, speechless and grief stricken all over again.

He leans forward and this time when his legs start to shake, he lets them give out and he falls, crumpling at Tony’s feet, sobbing in a way he hasn’t let himself, ever.

He stays like that, feels Tony sink down, too and run gentle hands through his hair, murmuring soft words and pressing softer kisses wherever he can reach.

Eventually he looks up, desperate and in pain, so much pain, and tightens his hands on Tony’s body.

“Stay,” he gasps, “please, let me- let me stay.”

And Tony smiles, but it is sad and Steve wants to cry again, so he does. He grieves for the family he has lost, the life he used to lead and the person he once was. Grieves for all of it and hates himself through it all, and hates that he hates it, can’t even give Tony a meaningful goodbye-

He feels warm hands cup his face and looks into warm brown eyes and somewhere inside him a little of the ice that’s been spreading melts. Distantly, he registers that they are alone, and wants to wonder how that happened, but banishes the thought almost as soon as it forms. He’s not alone. As long as he has Tony, he’s not alone. So he lets tears slip down his face and lets himself feel.

“I can’t,” he whispers, miserable and aching and for the first time in over six hundred years, home.

“I can’t,” he repeats, “not without you.”

And Tony smiles again, still sad but fondness bleeds through it.

“Of course you can, Steve. You found us yourself, didn’t you?”

And Steve shakes his head because _no_ , Tony doesn’t understand, he’s not-

“I’m not as good as you.”

And this time it’s Tony’s turn to bury his head against Steve and let out a wet, strangled noise.

When he pulls back to look up at him his eyes are shining.

“Oh, Steve.”

Warm hands on his face again as Tony brushes more tears away and Steve, God help him, whimpers.

“Steve. Do you really believe that?”

And Steve says nothing, just gazes into the brightest star he’s ever known and re-maps the lines of his face and the slant of his nose.

“Steve, I can’t count the number of times the thought of your sheer will and determination were the only things that got me through some sticky situations.

“Do you trust me?”

And Steve looks at him, grief overcome with bafflement because of course. Of course. More than anyone.

“I do.”

Tony smiles, bright and kind. “Then believe me when I say you’re not the same as me, but you are every bit as good. Remember that. If you trust me – trust me to tell you the truth, and trust my judgement, then trust that this is the truth.”

Tony keeps smiling down at him, because somehow Steve has ended up curled with his head on Tony’s lap.

Steve sits up, rubs at the tear tracks on his face, and hugs Tony, fiercely.

“I do,” he whispers, the words tentative and fragile but there.

He takes a moment, then:

“I love you. I love you,” the whisper strong, not brittle breaking like before

He feels Tony smile into his neck, feels his words vibrate through him, his entire being.

“I know, darling. I love you. When the time comes, we’ll be here.”

He looks up in time to see everyone file back in, feels their hands on him and basks in it. He wants with everything in him to sit and talk with each of them as he has with Tony but he hears a soft “It’s almost time,” and turns to Tony again. He blinks and their world flickers, his eyes shooting to Tony’s, terror and dread filling him again.

“I-“

He looks around himself, at the people surrounding him and dives deep into himself for the strength he found with each of them. He finds it and clings, looks each in the eyes and hopes it is enough.

Tony squeezes his hand and leans their foreheads together.

“Every bit as good,” he repeats “We’ll be waiting.”

Steve looks deep into warm brown eyes and finds truth and love so he nods, murmurs “I love you” and closes his eyes and breaths.

When he opens them again, he is in an Asgardian palace.

He sits up and feels a shiver run through him as the blanket fall away and the ghosts of a dozen pairs of hands fades with it.

He meets Thor in the gardens and Thor smiles at him, bright and kind.

“I hope you slept well, Steven.”

Steve finds himself nodding slowly, more genuine an action than any he has performed for centuries and feels himself smile for the first time in longer.

“I did,” he murmurs, looking out at the greens and golden yellows and bright blues that surround them.

“I did. Do you-“ he licks his lips and looks away. “I would be honoured – if you would let me stay. Allow me the privilege of fighting beside you again, if only because I have years—” _centuries_ “—to make up for.”

He looks at Thor then, looks into storm grey eyes and allows himself to reach out to the kindness he finds in them.

The smile Thor cracks is relieved and joyful in a way he has not imagined feeling again. And despite the pain he realises he has caused them both, he finds he lacks the mulish stubbornness to hate himself for it. This is where they are now, and he has only the future to shape, the past quite firmly set in stone.

And he trusts Tony Stark.

Trusts him like he has forgotten how to trust himself, and so maybe- no, there _is_ at least some truth to his words. There must be.

_Every bit as good_

He has loved Tony Stark in sickness and in health, and long since death has done them part, but in all that time he has abandoned himself in favour of bitterness and contempt.

Things will never be as they were, but he knows now – knows because he’s sure that what he saw was what Thor speaks of and what his mother taught him about, a world where the dead are happy and at peace. He knows they don’t have to be, in order to be happy. And he knows his family, his _friends_ , will be there waiting for him.

“Of course, Steve.”

Thor’s rumble is soft and as they walk side by side back to the palace and back to their battlefields, the wind rushes past them, soft through his hair and warm against his arms.


End file.
